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“The Scent of Ginger, Part Three”
My name is Danny, and here I continue the weird and wonderful story of how I met the love of my life.
It was after eight a.m. when I woke up that Saturday morning. I’m not usually a late sleeper, but on that morning things were very different. At first I didn’t want to open my eyes, thinking the events of the previous two days had all been an epic dream; that I would wake up in my cramped little apartment. But right away I breathed in the pleasant aromas of the bedroom, and of a floral shampoo, and I felt a nice pressure on my left shoulder, a pressure caused by the head of the person sleeping next to me. I opened my eyes to gaze upon Pratima Patel, my Indian girlfriend of less than two days, and confirmed that it was all very real indeed.
I laid there for a bit, replaying in my mind the events that led us to sharing her bed. The one thing that stood out was the huge dinner we’d had, and where all that food should be headed - Pratima couldn’t control her bowels, and wore diapers for protection. Sniffing the air, I couldn’t detect the smell of her poop, which (when she was messy) was scented by the huge amount of ginger-spiced tea that she drank. Apparently she hadn’t “gone” yet, at least not very much.
I’d had some of that tea as well, and its gentle laxative properties were starting to affect my own constitution. Moving carefully so as not to awaken Pratima, I got up. I stood by the bed for a moment to gaze upon my beautiful love. The light of a cloudy morning emphasized the contrast between her very pale skin and thick, long black hair, giving her an ethereal appearance enhanced further by her serene expression. Looking down her slightly-but-pleasingly plump body, partly covered by a robe that billowed when she walked, I saw the front of her protective undergarment: a Japanese-style cloth and plastic diaper cover, decorated in flowers, under which was a disposable adult brief.
The night before, Pratima had promised me that she would let me help her change her soiled diaper once we had become “more comfortable with each other.” Now, most guys would run away from that scenario as fast as they could. But not me: I have a fascination with women who mess themselves and wear diapers, inspired by a diarrhea-prone social worker I’d met when I was a teenager. I’d seen a number of ladies in diapers or who’d had accidents, but of course never had the chance to become intimate with one. Pratima, incontinent since birth, had herself had few partners, all of which dumped her once they learned about her “problem.”
We’d seen each other often in the past, and as it turned out we both had strong, secret feelings for each other. I didn’t know she needed diapers, because the bulk was hidden under the elaborate ethnic saris she usually wore in public. A chance meeting two days earlier finally brought us together, and a series of revelations made me start to wonder if she too was a diaper lover. Meanwhile, it looked like it wouldn’t be much longer before that diaper-change assist.
The morning air was a bit chilly, so I gently covered Pratima’s torso and legs with her robe. I headed down the long hall to the “water closet,” which was bigger and more fancy than any bathroom I’d ever seen, certainly worthy of being called a “pissoir.” Sitting on the can, I had one of the satisfying craps I could remember, a testament to the intestinal effects of that tea. From the toilet I could see the closet where Pratima kept her store of diapers and supplies, and knew I would be accessing it many times in the future.
Returning to the boudoir, I sat at the foot of the bed and waited for Pratima to awaken, looking at her the entire time. After about ten minutes she began to stir.
“Danny…?” she said, drowsily. I moved closer to her.
“I’m here, baby.” She took my hand and held it to the side of her face, cooing. A minute later I laid down next to her for the latest round of kisses.
“We will…” (smooch) “…have a wonderful day together…” (smeck) “…Danny Kerr.”
“I’m looking forward to it…” (smock) “…Pratima-with-the-hair.” I ruffled her mane lightly, causing her to giggle. Then she began to rise.
“One moment, please, Danny.” Pratima stood up, but then squatted slightly as I held her hand. I became excited because I knew what she was about to do. Last night’s heavy meal was finally making its way into her diaper.
“In the morning,” she informed me, “there is very much.” I learned that while Pratima was in bed, the contents of her bowels more or less stayed put. Once she stood up, gravity did its work. And on that Saturday morning, there was a lot of work to be done. Even under her robe I could see the seat of her diaper expand, as Pratima filled it with a monstrous load. Her unique smell filled the room, stronger than ever.
After a few minutes I saw her exercise her abdominal muscles, as if she was pushing on her intestines. I heard a muffled “crump” and a faint sloshy sound, and it seemed like she was forcing out some mushy poop. With that, she was done. “That is much better,” she said. I expected her to head back to the shower after that. But what she did next really blew me away.
Pratima sat down on her massively soiled diaper.
I could visualize all that mess being smushed up her back, and to the front, covering a place where a mess really doesn’t belong. I could imagine the softer stuff trying to escape the elastic leg bands of the inner diaper, staining her Japanese pants. I could picture what would have to be a murderous clean-up job, even with a hand-held shower head.
And I could see myself being the one doing the clean-up. Still, I had to question her.
“Pratima…isn’t it uncomfortable for you to sit when you have such a messy diaper?”
“Danny, after many years I have become accustomed to it. Being very soiled does not bother me.” She drew me in for more kisses; as she did so I swore I saw wiggle her bottom just a bit. My suspicions about her seemed to be coming true.
Soon, she rose. “It is now time for us to take our showers.” I grabbed fresh undies from the drawer and walked with her to the “water closet.” Well, I walked. Pratima had the gait of a woman who has very obviously made a huge mess on herself: bowlegged, dipping on one leg, like one of the “Funny Walks” from Monty Python. I gently patted her bum as we proceeded, eliciting one of her little giggles.
In the bathroom, Pratima showed me the workings of her vast shower and its dual hand-held heads. One, plated in silver, was for cleaning oneself, with buttons for the automatic dispensing of soaps. The other, in a material that matched the rose tiles, gave the stall an easy, quick power wash after use, again with built-in cleanser dispensers. I saw, as before, the bucket at one end of the tub, and once again the doctor seemed to know what I was thinking.
“I use the bucket,” she said, “when I have a bowel movement during my shower. I empty it into the commode. Now, you may go first. I will wait for you here.”
I hadn’t expected to get naked in front of Pratima so soon. But with the good way things were going, there was no sense in resisting. I removed my robe and pajamas and hung them on a hook outside the stall. Then off came my skivvies. Pratima was standing a few feet from me, smiling as more and more was revealed.
“You are aroused, Danny.” She was smiling. “That is a very good thing.”
“I can’t help being aroused, baby,” I told her. “I’m here with the girl of my dreams, and she’s looking right at it.”
She sat down on a chair, again seeming to wiggle in her muck. “I will be waiting here, Danny.”
I got into the stall and closed the translucent glass doors. The high-tech shower head made the process much faster and simpler, with no slippery soap bar to handle. I was done in five minutes, and the effective sanitation took only another two. I figured it would take longer for her.
Pratima rose and approached me as I dried in the tiled area outside the stall. Taking the towel from me, she continued drying me, with special attention to my middle section.
“You have quite a handsome body, Danny Kerr.” I was never really too keen on my physique…but was not about to dispute Pratima’s assessment. “I have now seen all of you, for the first of what I hope will be many, many times. You will now see all of me.”
All I could do was nod, as Pratima went to the special closet to get her supplies. A fresh Molicare disposable diaper, terry cloth bloomers, and plastic outer bloomers; a heavy-duty plastic bag. She also got what looked like a pad for urinary incontinence, and a roll of paper towels. Last, a pair of disposable latex gloves of the kind seen in hospital examining rooms. After setting these items on a shelf next to the stall, and putting the trash bag into a small container, she took off her robe, and flipped a switch to activate an exhaust fan.
“Danny,” she said, “you will now learn how to help me change my garment.”
I again just nodded. Pratima, facing me, unsnapped the Japanese pants and let them drop to the floor. Sure enough, there were stains on the inside caused by the leaking of the inner diaper. She then stepped into the stall. I could see poop built up inside the leg gathers, and there were brown smudges on her thighs.
“We have reached a critical point, Danny. I am very heavily soiled. If you do not want to see this, you may leave, and I will understand.”
“Pratima,” I reassured her, “this is all a part of you, and I want to know everything there is about you. I’m not going anywhere.”
She put on the gloves. The tapes were pulled back, and Pratima peeled off her loaded brief and deposited it in the trash bag. Nearly the entire back of it was covered with thick, light brown poop. Pratima’s backside was even messier than the diaper, slathered all the way upward and outward. I figured she would use the powerful jet in the shower head to force it all off, but cleaning the splatter in the stall afterward would be a chore. Also, the familiar smell of her was incredibly strong now, even with the exhaust going. But I was not turned off by it at all. I had read about pheromones, chemicals secreted by animals that can make another of the same species more attracted to them. I was thinking that perhaps Pratima’s pheromones could be making her mess smell more pleasant.
Instead of turning on the water, Pratima rolled off a wad of paper towels and began wiping the excess poop off of her bottom and legs. After a few passes she threw the wad into the waste can and got another. Then another. I wanted to offer to help, but I played it cool. It took her about five minutes, and almost the entire towel roll, before she considered herself clean enough for the shower head. Into the can went the gloves, and she tied the bag closed.
For the first time, she faced me as a naked woman “Danny,” she said, turning slowly, “this is what all of me looks like.” All of her was a slightly-overweight Indian woman with sturdy, shapely thighs, a somewhat heavy (and still poop-stained) rump, good-sized breasts, and thick pubic hair matching that on her head. I wanted so, so much to touch her, and something else as well.
“I will take my shower now, my love.” I sat down as she slid closed the doors and began wielding her elaborate shower head. Through the translucent glass, I watched her silhouette as she hosed herself down, first her behind, next her crotch (did she shudder?), and then the rest of her. She dispensed soap onto a loofah and thoroughly scrubbed herself from stem to stern, giving particular attention to her buns. After a final rinse she was done with herself, and the door slid open. I rose to meet her, and she handed me her towel to dry her off as she’d done for me. I took my sweet time blotting her, which she didn’t mind. As I did that I saw a patch of darkened skin on her inner left leg, and made a mental note to ask her about it later
Then, another surprise: Pratima crossed the room and sat on the toilet. I thought she needed another dump, but instead, as I cleansed the stall, I heard the sound of a torrent of pee.
“I am not incontinent of bladder, Danny. It is rare for a person born with spina bifida to be only singly incontinent, but I am such a person. I prefer to use the commode for making water.” As I learned later, Pratima had a ridiculously strong bladder and could hold it almost indefinitely. She rarely wet her diapers. But why did she have bladder pads?
After blotting and flushing, Pratima returned to the shower stall. From a holder she retrieved a vial of scented oil and handed it to me. “You shall have the honor of anointing me, Danny Kerr.”
“Show me how and where, honey.” She guided me first to her plumpish rear, and I noticed her skin there was permanently discolored from a lifetime of being coated with poop. It didn’t smell poopy, though, only faintly gingery, and even that was soon masked by the pleasant oil. Next came the tops of her thighs, front and back. Being only inches away from her “secret garden” was making me a bit uncomfortable in a good way, which she acknowledged with a quick kiss on my forehead. She then had me oil her soft, round belly, back, shoulders, and upper arms, before ending with a small amount in the cleft of her cleavage. I took the opportunity to stroke her breasts lightly.
“Your touch is always very gentle, Danny,” said the doctor.
“You have a marvelous body that I just love to touch, sweetheart.” I reached around and gave her buns a gentle squeeze. “Especially here.”
“’Especially here’ is my favorite. Now, hand me my disposable garment, please.” I passed Pratima the Molicare brief, and thought about helping her put it on - but doing so might have betrayed my secret. That didn’t matter, though, as she asked me to hold it up while she applied the bottom set of tapes. “And, the pad.” She placed the medium Poise pad inside the bottom of the Molicare.
“Pratima, I thought you didn’t have bladder problems.”
“The pad channels my bowel discharge away from my other openings.” Made perfect sense, especially in light of how nasty she apparently liked to make her bottom.
As Pratima fastened the other tapes, I grabbed the terry bloomers. Stepping out of the stall for the final time, she slid the bloomers on, and then the plastic pants, as I supported her. Pratima took the bag with the soiled items over to the other closet and put in into the diaper pail. We washed our hands thoroughly, put our robes on and headed back up the hall to her bedroom.
Once we got there, we momentarily forgot about getting dressed, as I gave the Pratima’s swaddled tushie another squeeze. Like a couple of horny teenagers, we ended up on the bed for about ten minutes of making out, me being careful to not induce another orgasm from the doctor. I wanted to save the next one for when we both could enjoy it.
We got up and put our clothes on. Pratima got into a cream-colored tunic with matching pants. Once again, the tunic did not conceal her diaper bulge, which was not quite as prominent as the night before, but still visible. Then we headed to the rocking chair near the windows. I hadn’t noticed before how big it was - big enough and sturdy enough, in fact, to comfortably hold both of us. We would be spending a great deal of time in that chair, starting with that late Saturday morning.
We sat quietly for a few minutes, Pratima’s head resting in its soon-to-be-familiar place on my right shoulder. Soon, she spoke.
“You really were not offended by not seeing my soiled body, Danny. That makes you a very, very special person.”
“Thanks, honey. I’m a special guy for a very, very special lady.”
“Danny,” she continued, “I believe you were…uh…aroused by seeing me in that condition?”
Busted.
“You have an…appreciation…for women who soil themselves.”
Pratima Patel, psychologist, had figured me out. No sense in denying it. May as well get it over with.
“Yes.”
By this time, I shouldn’t have been surprised when she kissed me, but I was. And of course she started with the crying.
“Danny…I have waited all my adult life to meet someone like you…someone who loves me not just despite my incontinence, but also because of my incontinence….”
“And I have waited so many, many years to meet a lady who doesn’t mind having a messy diaper. We are each other’s dream person, Pratima.”
“Soulmates, Danny. I want very much to surrender my virginity to you.”
I hugged her tightly. “That’s another thing we have in common, babe.”
“That does not surprise me, Danny. A man with your…interests will have a difficult time finding a partner for intercourse.” I was getting used to Pratima’s formal manner of speech. “Of course, so will a woman with my affliction. But we have found each other. Our first intimate moment must come soon.”
“But there’s a problem, dear. When you have to poop, do you have any warning at all? Any cramps or pressure?”
“No,” she said, blushing. “I do not realize I need a bowel movement until it is happening.”
“Well…I’m sure you don’t want to get these nice bedclothes dirty.”
“How will we manage?”
“I have an idea…”
My name is Danny, and here I continue the weird and wonderful story of how I met the love of my life.
It was after eight a.m. when I woke up that Saturday morning. I’m not usually a late sleeper, but on that morning things were very different. At first I didn’t want to open my eyes, thinking the events of the previous two days had all been an epic dream; that I would wake up in my cramped little apartment. But right away I breathed in the pleasant aromas of the bedroom, and of a floral shampoo, and I felt a nice pressure on my left shoulder, a pressure caused by the head of the person sleeping next to me. I opened my eyes to gaze upon Pratima Patel, my Indian girlfriend of less than two days, and confirmed that it was all very real indeed.
I laid there for a bit, replaying in my mind the events that led us to sharing her bed. The one thing that stood out was the huge dinner we’d had, and where all that food should be headed - Pratima couldn’t control her bowels, and wore diapers for protection. Sniffing the air, I couldn’t detect the smell of her poop, which (when she was messy) was scented by the huge amount of ginger-spiced tea that she drank. Apparently she hadn’t “gone” yet, at least not very much.
I’d had some of that tea as well, and its gentle laxative properties were starting to affect my own constitution. Moving carefully so as not to awaken Pratima, I got up. I stood by the bed for a moment to gaze upon my beautiful love. The light of a cloudy morning emphasized the contrast between her very pale skin and thick, long black hair, giving her an ethereal appearance enhanced further by her serene expression. Looking down her slightly-but-pleasingly plump body, partly covered by a robe that billowed when she walked, I saw the front of her protective undergarment: a Japanese-style cloth and plastic diaper cover, decorated in flowers, under which was a disposable adult brief.
The night before, Pratima had promised me that she would let me help her change her soiled diaper once we had become “more comfortable with each other.” Now, most guys would run away from that scenario as fast as they could. But not me: I have a fascination with women who mess themselves and wear diapers, inspired by a diarrhea-prone social worker I’d met when I was a teenager. I’d seen a number of ladies in diapers or who’d had accidents, but of course never had the chance to become intimate with one. Pratima, incontinent since birth, had herself had few partners, all of which dumped her once they learned about her “problem.”
We’d seen each other often in the past, and as it turned out we both had strong, secret feelings for each other. I didn’t know she needed diapers, because the bulk was hidden under the elaborate ethnic saris she usually wore in public. A chance meeting two days earlier finally brought us together, and a series of revelations made me start to wonder if she too was a diaper lover. Meanwhile, it looked like it wouldn’t be much longer before that diaper-change assist.
The morning air was a bit chilly, so I gently covered Pratima’s torso and legs with her robe. I headed down the long hall to the “water closet,” which was bigger and more fancy than any bathroom I’d ever seen, certainly worthy of being called a “pissoir.” Sitting on the can, I had one of the satisfying craps I could remember, a testament to the intestinal effects of that tea. From the toilet I could see the closet where Pratima kept her store of diapers and supplies, and knew I would be accessing it many times in the future.
Returning to the boudoir, I sat at the foot of the bed and waited for Pratima to awaken, looking at her the entire time. After about ten minutes she began to stir.
“Danny…?” she said, drowsily. I moved closer to her.
“I’m here, baby.” She took my hand and held it to the side of her face, cooing. A minute later I laid down next to her for the latest round of kisses.
“We will…” (smooch) “…have a wonderful day together…” (smeck) “…Danny Kerr.”
“I’m looking forward to it…” (smock) “…Pratima-with-the-hair.” I ruffled her mane lightly, causing her to giggle. Then she began to rise.
“One moment, please, Danny.” Pratima stood up, but then squatted slightly as I held her hand. I became excited because I knew what she was about to do. Last night’s heavy meal was finally making its way into her diaper.
“In the morning,” she informed me, “there is very much.” I learned that while Pratima was in bed, the contents of her bowels more or less stayed put. Once she stood up, gravity did its work. And on that Saturday morning, there was a lot of work to be done. Even under her robe I could see the seat of her diaper expand, as Pratima filled it with a monstrous load. Her unique smell filled the room, stronger than ever.
After a few minutes I saw her exercise her abdominal muscles, as if she was pushing on her intestines. I heard a muffled “crump” and a faint sloshy sound, and it seemed like she was forcing out some mushy poop. With that, she was done. “That is much better,” she said. I expected her to head back to the shower after that. But what she did next really blew me away.
Pratima sat down on her massively soiled diaper.
I could visualize all that mess being smushed up her back, and to the front, covering a place where a mess really doesn’t belong. I could imagine the softer stuff trying to escape the elastic leg bands of the inner diaper, staining her Japanese pants. I could picture what would have to be a murderous clean-up job, even with a hand-held shower head.
And I could see myself being the one doing the clean-up. Still, I had to question her.
“Pratima…isn’t it uncomfortable for you to sit when you have such a messy diaper?”
“Danny, after many years I have become accustomed to it. Being very soiled does not bother me.” She drew me in for more kisses; as she did so I swore I saw wiggle her bottom just a bit. My suspicions about her seemed to be coming true.
Soon, she rose. “It is now time for us to take our showers.” I grabbed fresh undies from the drawer and walked with her to the “water closet.” Well, I walked. Pratima had the gait of a woman who has very obviously made a huge mess on herself: bowlegged, dipping on one leg, like one of the “Funny Walks” from Monty Python. I gently patted her bum as we proceeded, eliciting one of her little giggles.
In the bathroom, Pratima showed me the workings of her vast shower and its dual hand-held heads. One, plated in silver, was for cleaning oneself, with buttons for the automatic dispensing of soaps. The other, in a material that matched the rose tiles, gave the stall an easy, quick power wash after use, again with built-in cleanser dispensers. I saw, as before, the bucket at one end of the tub, and once again the doctor seemed to know what I was thinking.
“I use the bucket,” she said, “when I have a bowel movement during my shower. I empty it into the commode. Now, you may go first. I will wait for you here.”
I hadn’t expected to get naked in front of Pratima so soon. But with the good way things were going, there was no sense in resisting. I removed my robe and pajamas and hung them on a hook outside the stall. Then off came my skivvies. Pratima was standing a few feet from me, smiling as more and more was revealed.
“You are aroused, Danny.” She was smiling. “That is a very good thing.”
“I can’t help being aroused, baby,” I told her. “I’m here with the girl of my dreams, and she’s looking right at it.”
She sat down on a chair, again seeming to wiggle in her muck. “I will be waiting here, Danny.”
I got into the stall and closed the translucent glass doors. The high-tech shower head made the process much faster and simpler, with no slippery soap bar to handle. I was done in five minutes, and the effective sanitation took only another two. I figured it would take longer for her.
Pratima rose and approached me as I dried in the tiled area outside the stall. Taking the towel from me, she continued drying me, with special attention to my middle section.
“You have quite a handsome body, Danny Kerr.” I was never really too keen on my physique…but was not about to dispute Pratima’s assessment. “I have now seen all of you, for the first of what I hope will be many, many times. You will now see all of me.”
All I could do was nod, as Pratima went to the special closet to get her supplies. A fresh Molicare disposable diaper, terry cloth bloomers, and plastic outer bloomers; a heavy-duty plastic bag. She also got what looked like a pad for urinary incontinence, and a roll of paper towels. Last, a pair of disposable latex gloves of the kind seen in hospital examining rooms. After setting these items on a shelf next to the stall, and putting the trash bag into a small container, she took off her robe, and flipped a switch to activate an exhaust fan.
“Danny,” she said, “you will now learn how to help me change my garment.”
I again just nodded. Pratima, facing me, unsnapped the Japanese pants and let them drop to the floor. Sure enough, there were stains on the inside caused by the leaking of the inner diaper. She then stepped into the stall. I could see poop built up inside the leg gathers, and there were brown smudges on her thighs.
“We have reached a critical point, Danny. I am very heavily soiled. If you do not want to see this, you may leave, and I will understand.”
“Pratima,” I reassured her, “this is all a part of you, and I want to know everything there is about you. I’m not going anywhere.”
She put on the gloves. The tapes were pulled back, and Pratima peeled off her loaded brief and deposited it in the trash bag. Nearly the entire back of it was covered with thick, light brown poop. Pratima’s backside was even messier than the diaper, slathered all the way upward and outward. I figured she would use the powerful jet in the shower head to force it all off, but cleaning the splatter in the stall afterward would be a chore. Also, the familiar smell of her was incredibly strong now, even with the exhaust going. But I was not turned off by it at all. I had read about pheromones, chemicals secreted by animals that can make another of the same species more attracted to them. I was thinking that perhaps Pratima’s pheromones could be making her mess smell more pleasant.
Instead of turning on the water, Pratima rolled off a wad of paper towels and began wiping the excess poop off of her bottom and legs. After a few passes she threw the wad into the waste can and got another. Then another. I wanted to offer to help, but I played it cool. It took her about five minutes, and almost the entire towel roll, before she considered herself clean enough for the shower head. Into the can went the gloves, and she tied the bag closed.
For the first time, she faced me as a naked woman “Danny,” she said, turning slowly, “this is what all of me looks like.” All of her was a slightly-overweight Indian woman with sturdy, shapely thighs, a somewhat heavy (and still poop-stained) rump, good-sized breasts, and thick pubic hair matching that on her head. I wanted so, so much to touch her, and something else as well.
“I will take my shower now, my love.” I sat down as she slid closed the doors and began wielding her elaborate shower head. Through the translucent glass, I watched her silhouette as she hosed herself down, first her behind, next her crotch (did she shudder?), and then the rest of her. She dispensed soap onto a loofah and thoroughly scrubbed herself from stem to stern, giving particular attention to her buns. After a final rinse she was done with herself, and the door slid open. I rose to meet her, and she handed me her towel to dry her off as she’d done for me. I took my sweet time blotting her, which she didn’t mind. As I did that I saw a patch of darkened skin on her inner left leg, and made a mental note to ask her about it later
Then, another surprise: Pratima crossed the room and sat on the toilet. I thought she needed another dump, but instead, as I cleansed the stall, I heard the sound of a torrent of pee.
“I am not incontinent of bladder, Danny. It is rare for a person born with spina bifida to be only singly incontinent, but I am such a person. I prefer to use the commode for making water.” As I learned later, Pratima had a ridiculously strong bladder and could hold it almost indefinitely. She rarely wet her diapers. But why did she have bladder pads?
After blotting and flushing, Pratima returned to the shower stall. From a holder she retrieved a vial of scented oil and handed it to me. “You shall have the honor of anointing me, Danny Kerr.”
“Show me how and where, honey.” She guided me first to her plumpish rear, and I noticed her skin there was permanently discolored from a lifetime of being coated with poop. It didn’t smell poopy, though, only faintly gingery, and even that was soon masked by the pleasant oil. Next came the tops of her thighs, front and back. Being only inches away from her “secret garden” was making me a bit uncomfortable in a good way, which she acknowledged with a quick kiss on my forehead. She then had me oil her soft, round belly, back, shoulders, and upper arms, before ending with a small amount in the cleft of her cleavage. I took the opportunity to stroke her breasts lightly.
“Your touch is always very gentle, Danny,” said the doctor.
“You have a marvelous body that I just love to touch, sweetheart.” I reached around and gave her buns a gentle squeeze. “Especially here.”
“’Especially here’ is my favorite. Now, hand me my disposable garment, please.” I passed Pratima the Molicare brief, and thought about helping her put it on - but doing so might have betrayed my secret. That didn’t matter, though, as she asked me to hold it up while she applied the bottom set of tapes. “And, the pad.” She placed the medium Poise pad inside the bottom of the Molicare.
“Pratima, I thought you didn’t have bladder problems.”
“The pad channels my bowel discharge away from my other openings.” Made perfect sense, especially in light of how nasty she apparently liked to make her bottom.
As Pratima fastened the other tapes, I grabbed the terry bloomers. Stepping out of the stall for the final time, she slid the bloomers on, and then the plastic pants, as I supported her. Pratima took the bag with the soiled items over to the other closet and put in into the diaper pail. We washed our hands thoroughly, put our robes on and headed back up the hall to her bedroom.
Once we got there, we momentarily forgot about getting dressed, as I gave the Pratima’s swaddled tushie another squeeze. Like a couple of horny teenagers, we ended up on the bed for about ten minutes of making out, me being careful to not induce another orgasm from the doctor. I wanted to save the next one for when we both could enjoy it.
We got up and put our clothes on. Pratima got into a cream-colored tunic with matching pants. Once again, the tunic did not conceal her diaper bulge, which was not quite as prominent as the night before, but still visible. Then we headed to the rocking chair near the windows. I hadn’t noticed before how big it was - big enough and sturdy enough, in fact, to comfortably hold both of us. We would be spending a great deal of time in that chair, starting with that late Saturday morning.
We sat quietly for a few minutes, Pratima’s head resting in its soon-to-be-familiar place on my right shoulder. Soon, she spoke.
“You really were not offended by not seeing my soiled body, Danny. That makes you a very, very special person.”
“Thanks, honey. I’m a special guy for a very, very special lady.”
“Danny,” she continued, “I believe you were…uh…aroused by seeing me in that condition?”
Busted.
“You have an…appreciation…for women who soil themselves.”
Pratima Patel, psychologist, had figured me out. No sense in denying it. May as well get it over with.
“Yes.”
By this time, I shouldn’t have been surprised when she kissed me, but I was. And of course she started with the crying.
“Danny…I have waited all my adult life to meet someone like you…someone who loves me not just despite my incontinence, but also because of my incontinence….”
“And I have waited so many, many years to meet a lady who doesn’t mind having a messy diaper. We are each other’s dream person, Pratima.”
“Soulmates, Danny. I want very much to surrender my virginity to you.”
I hugged her tightly. “That’s another thing we have in common, babe.”
“That does not surprise me, Danny. A man with your…interests will have a difficult time finding a partner for intercourse.” I was getting used to Pratima’s formal manner of speech. “Of course, so will a woman with my affliction. But we have found each other. Our first intimate moment must come soon.”
“But there’s a problem, dear. When you have to poop, do you have any warning at all? Any cramps or pressure?”
“No,” she said, blushing. “I do not realize I need a bowel movement until it is happening.”
“Well…I’m sure you don’t want to get these nice bedclothes dirty.”
“How will we manage?”
“I have an idea…”